The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless
cries of children playing games controlled by mysterious rhythms and
phrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely
pipe and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes supported lovers in
couples who made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they
were there to fan.

The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man
named Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.

Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his
"bunch of spinach, car-fare grade." This imputation deepened the
pessimism of Freshmayer; but he set out a brand that came perilously
near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase,
and lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to
make payment, he found not a penny there.

"Say, my friend," he explained, frankly, "I've come out without any
change. Hand you that nickel first time I pass."

Joy surged in Freshmayer's heart. Here was corroboration of his
belief that the world was rotten and man a peripatetic evil. Without
a word he rounded the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught
upon his customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as a punching-bag for
a pessimistic tobacconist. He quickly bestowed upon Freshmayer a
colorado-maduro eye in return for the ardent kick that he received
from that dealer in goods for cash only.

The impetus of the enemy's attack forced the Hopkins line back to